Tortured Haymitch
by Annie Flickerman
Summary: A timeworn, beaten Haymitch, reminiscing and trying desperately to not care.


A cool gust of wind blows past, causing the nearby wind chimes to all sound at once. I draw in a slow breath and lean back in my chair, clutching one of the arm rests in a tight grip. Today is the day.

I allow myself to savor the cool morning air for another long moment before rising and stretching my arms out over my head. My first year as mentor, this day had been something to fear. But year after year it was really just the same thing. Two people get picked, two people die. Two people get picked, two people die. Now, I look forward to the day with a sense of slightly bitter numbness. Though the numb feeling is mainly due to the fact that I'm always drunk.

"C'mon, Mitchy boy. They're waiting for you. You're the star of the show," I grin a little at my own humor then move into my house to grab a few things. A bottle of scotch. My favorite vest. A comb to run through my hair. I stroke the comb through my hair once and toss it aside, throw on the vest, and work on uncapping the scotch.

"Ho hum, ho hum," I take a sip from the bottle and stagger out into the street. It's early still. No one is out in the streets. Most people, at least in this district, wait until the last possible moment before heading in the direction of the stage.

Cameras are everywhere. And Peacekeepers. Plenty of those, too. The stage is vacant except for Trinket and the Mayor, Effie in her usual bright colors and Undersee looking slightly tense. Is he...scared? Like his little girl will get her name drawn. She has it in there, what, four times at most? If that? I roll my eyes and stumble towards the stage.

When I first started drinking, everything became very heavy to me. My steps were weighed down and my head seemed cloudy and full. It was annoying and frustrating, but I kept at it anyways because it also helped me to forget my life. My life that had been filled with nothing but grief and terrors that no person should ever have to witness. Not that I enjoy self pitying. I mostly keep to myself about what I've been through.

I stumble past the stage, giving a drunken wave to Effie and the Mayor as I take a sip from my bottle again. The world spins around me briefly but then it goes still again. It often does that. Twirly-twirly, then suddenly eerily calm.

Just then my foot strikes against something and I go falling forward. I land in a small pile of burnt...something, laying there and grunting. I can't get up. The trash pile is actually rather comfortable, after all...

I wake up later. How much later, I'm not sure, but the sun is still in the sky so I don't think I've slept that long. With a soft groan, I roll onto my back and push to my feet. Someone is talking. Sounds like Effie and it probably is. So the Reaping is still going on? Wonderful. Better late than never.

I spend a moment looking for my bottle of scotch but realize with dismay that it is now a shattered pile of glass and alcohol, a little ways off from the pile of burnt scraps I'd been laying in. Oh, well. There's more at home.

A bird sings off in the distance but it sounds like it's much closer. I attribute that to the buzz in my head. I like to think that the alcohol really improves my senses, not dulls them. After all, would I really think clearer with all the memories pounding in my head every second of the day?

The crowd is silent as I stumble towards the direction of the stage. At first I think it's because of me but then I see everyone staring up on the stage at a brown haired teenager who looks very solemn. She's familiar. I've probably seen her around town. Effie looks a bit unnerved for a brief moment but then she puts on another smile and goes to the other bowl to draw out the male name.

I move around the stage and begin staggering up onto it, only moments after a blonde haired, burly young man steps up onto the stage. He stands awkwardly on the other side of Effie. The crowd is still silent.

And then a sting strikes me, from the inside out. A sting that propels me a few feet forward and makes me dizzy. A sting brought about by the sudden surge of memories. Wasn't that Maysilee and myself? Not those two, but me and her. Her and me. We're up there, standing there, the crowd staring at us. We're off to the arena, ho hum, hi dee dee.

I realize I'm humming and swaying, dangerously close to the edge of the stage. My world is still spinning and I'm still dizzy. Back to the arena, let's go, let's go. This time I won't survive. This time Maysilee will and all those years I've spent in a living hell will be gone, gone, gone!

And then I fall. While my mind is spinning and my mouth is tasting something horrible and my eyes are trying not to cry, I'm falling down, down, down. And then I hit the ground with a thud and lay there, feeling filthy and beaten and alone and miserable.

No, Maysilee and I's turn has long since been over.

It's time for these two to be thrown into misery. Into the arena they go. To die.


End file.
